Halloween 9 the Veil between the worlds
by goolcaptain
Summary: Remember how great Halloween was? And how lousy all the sequals were. Time to finish it, come, as the shadows lengthen and the nights draw in, let's go to Haddonfield once more....


Originally published this as M but that means it doesn't get put on Just In or archived so I've toned down the violence and republished as T

Summary; remember how brilliant Halloween was? Remember how dreadful all the sequals have been? Ok, Part 3 was interesting. Part 5 was awful but had one truly great scene, when the Sheriff shows Michael Myers' niece her uncle chained up in his cell. (Sheriff "Tomorrow the National Guard will take him to a maximum security prison and keep him there until he dies" Little girl, not fooled for a moment and realising the Sheriff doesn't understand at all, "He'll NEVER die")  
Part 6 I actually liked quite a lot, explained a great deal and was Donald Pleasance's swansong. ("Sitting staring at the wall, sitting staring at the wall. Not really seeing the wall, seeing beyond it, to this night, when the silent countdown would finally end…Death has come to your little town").  
Part 7 was cool (Go Laurie!), part 8 sucked beyond belief, almost worse than Alien 3. Why are all my favourite strong female heroines always dying? Laurie Strode, Xena, Sarah Connor, Ripley, Buffy (ok, the Buffster always comes back and I rescued Ripley in my last fic).  
Anyway, I digress. Here's how the Halloween series ends and ties all the disparate loose ends together from 1-6, 3 and 7-8. For the record, the title is derived from the old Celtic name for Halloween, Samhain (actually pronounced Sow-in), the time when the barrier between Earth and the afterlife/spirit world is at it's weakest allowing supernatural events to occur. And trick or treating derives from Irish peasants going from house to house demanding payment to pray for dead relatives. Isn't it great what you learn on the Discovery Channel?  
Rating; NC17 violence  
Timing; after Halloween 8; Resurrection  
Disclaimer; all belongs to Mustapha Akkid/John Carpenter and naught to me (what happened to John Carpenter? He made such great films, Escape from New York "Call me Snake", The Fog, Assault on Precinct 13, They Live, The Thing "Let's just sit here, see what happens" writing, editing, directing, even did the music which was excellent synth-pop. What's he doing now?)

Halloween 8; The veil between the worlds

He rode his bike excitedly along the pavement, scrunching the crisp autumn leaves as e went. He loved Halloween, loved the costumes, loved bobbing for apples, loved the trick or treating. He almost loved it more than Christmas. He couldn't wait to get home. His sister would be there and they loved to spend time together. Tonight after her boyfriend left she would take him out to go from door to door.  
"Hello Michael"  
He almost ran into him, just able to stop his bike in time. It took him a moment or two to recognise their neighbour. What was his name again? He could always remember his profession though. He was a toymaker. Michael thought that just the most wonderful job in the world. That's what he wanted to be when he grew up.  
Michael noticed that there were lots of boxes stacked on his front lawn. "Sorry sir. Are those toys?" he gestured to the boxes.  
The Toymaker smiled kindly. "No Michael. I'm moving for work, I'm setting up a new factory to make masks. Masks for Halloween. We're going to call it Silver Shamrock, for good luck"  
"Cool name. Can I have a mask?"  
The Toymaker craned his head and looked at him closely, as if an idea had suddenly occurred to him. "Would you like a mask, Michael?"  
Michael nodded eagerly.  
The Toymaker placed a tender hand on his shoulder. "Come with me then" He motioned towards the open doors of the cellar. Michael could vaguely make out other shadowy figures within the cellar, outlined in a soft light. Candlelight? From Jack-o-Lanterns perhaps. Maybe the Toymaker was having a Halloween party? He could hear singing, or chanting or something.  
Michael hesitated for a moment. "I'm not supposed to go with strangers" he pointed out.  
"Ah, but then we're neighbours Michael, not strangers" his accent sounded a little weird, Scottish or something. He sounded kinda like Scotty from Star Trek.  
"Ok then" He smiled as the Toymaker led him into the darkness.

It was night by the time they emerged. Michael was no longer smiling. His face was utterly blank, his eyes darker.  
The Toymaker gestured to his house across the street, placing an affectionate hand on his shoulder. "Time for you to get home Michael, your family are waiting for you"  
He nodded. The Toymaker rolled down his sleeve to hide the scarring on Michael's wrist, the Mark of Thorn clearly visible in the streetlights. Looking up he could see the mark clearly replicated in the night sky, the constellation at its' zenith at this time of year, the most prominent in the heavens.  
Michael walked past his bike, knocking it to the floor as he did so. He didn't look back, didn't even notice. He walked purposefully across the street to his house, looking neither right nor left. He left his bike sprawled unwanted on the pavement. He left his humanity with it.  
The Toymaker watched him go with pride. Wynn joined him on the porch, folding up his robe as he did so, the material festooned with Runic symbols . "That young man will provide us countless sacrifices. Even his own bloodline, his own kin, the most valuable of all. Through their blood, we will gain the power to restore the feast of Samhain to what it really should be"  
Wynn looked doubtful "He's just a boy"  
The Toymaker shook his head "That little boy will teach this town the real meaning of Halloween, as if Christianity had never come along. You see a child. I see a vessel for our revenge"  
"But what can he do?"  
"What can't he do? On this sacred, sacred night when the veil between the worlds wears thin he is more powerful than you can possibly imagine"   
"But he's still just one person"  
The Toymaker nodded. "We'll need more than just him. But I have a plan for that. When the planets align and the time is right the hills will run red with the blood of our sacrifices. Michael is the messenger, an omen of what is to come. But they'll never understand the message until it's far too late " He turned to Wynn. "And you shall be his guardian. Watch over him and protect him. You were born for this"  
A high pitched feminine scream rent the air, clearly emanating from the Myers' house, startling Wynn. The Toymaker didn't seem the least shocked.  
"And so it begins. The end days. Come, we have much work to do"  
They turned and walked back into the house.

Laurie drifted through the darkness. It was over, it was finally over. It was almost a relief. No more fear, no more wondering. She was dead. Michael had killed her. She would no longer suffer. She was beyond that now.  
The figures gradually took shape around her. She recognised her friends, her lover, the pupils from her school that he had killed, the staff at the hospital. She saw her cousins, her aunt and uncle, barely remembered from childhood. People she vaguely knew from the streets of Haddonfield. She saw the nurse who had assisted Dr Loomis. But not Loomis himself, he had died peacefully in his bed. She was glad, glad he at least had escaped.  
There were others, many, many others, far too many to count. Cops, lot's of cops, men who had given their lives to vainly try and protect the innocent. Some people in robes, cultists of some sort? So many people, young and old, so many that Michael had killed. It all seemed such a terrible waste.  
And there was Jamie, her dear sweet Jamie, her child. She had given her up when she'd faked her own death in order to try and protect her but she'd dammed her, just as surely as if she had slit her throat herself. But it didn't matter now. Laurie took her in her arms and hugged her to her, weeping as she did so. Jamie hugged her back, burying her face in Laurie's shoulder. It was all ok now, everything was ok.  
A woman stepped from the crowd. A young girl. Laurie held Jamie protectively and looked at her. She seemed familiar, so, so familiar.  
Judith Myers. Her sister, the sister she never knew. His first victim. Laurie looked at her. Not knowing what to say.  
Judith reached out and touched her. Her skin was icy cold. Laurie opened her mouth to speak and Judith kissed her before she could even think to stop her….  
Her son. The vision filled her mind. Michael would kill her son, his blood relative. As sure as the sun would rise tomorrow. As sure as he had killed her.  
And the baby. Jamie's baby. She saw her now as the toddler she had last seen her as but she also saw her as the teenager that had unwillingly borne her uncle's incestuous child. She had a grandchild, somewhere, stolen away from Michael, stolen by her surviving cousins and Tommy, the little boy she had been babysitting on that first terrible night. Her precious Jamie lived on in that child.  
In that moment she understood.

Michael strolled purposefully away from the asylum. He felt no elation, no sense of victory. He had a task to perform and he had performed it. It was his purpose, to kill. Again and again and again.  
Laurie was dead. He had performed his task. He would now return to the sacred place and wait. Wait for the next convergence of the stars. The Halloween people celebrated was merely a date, a date selected at random by the Christian usurpers when they created their facile calender. It was the stars that truly selected the time of sacrifice. He would wait until they aligned once more and then the burning strength within him would return. Then it would be time to kill once more. And one day he would find and kill his nephew. And reclaim his child from those who had stolen it away from him.  
One day there would be enough sacrifices to usher in the new age. To return the glory that had once been.  
He strode purposefully into the night.   
He didn't notice Laurie's corpse as she sat up behind him.

Halloween in Haddonfield.  
Dozens of police cruisers prowled the streets, shotgun wielding state-troopers nervously scanning the shadows, clutching their weapons protectively to their chests. A National Guard helicopter clattered overhead, it's searchlight probing the darkness. It might have disturbed the residents of Haddonfield if there had been any left but most had long since fled for the week, the few brave souls who remained securely locked behind their bolted doors, shotguns and hunting rifles kept to hand.  
All except at the Myers house  
The street was deserted. The houses empty, abandoned. Michael had killed more than just human beings. He had killed a town. Forlorn real estate signs projected from every garden with no takers in sight. There were no Jack O'Lanterns, no children trick or treating. Haddonfield would never celebrate Halloween again.  
But this Halloween they were spared. There were no killings, no murders to break the peace of the night. This would go down as another good year, a year when the curse would not claim any more victims.

"Call it a night Sheriff?"  
He nodded. The state police SWAT team commander peeled off his night vision goggles and gave the orders to his men. One by one they emerged from their hides, snipers with their long range rifles equipped with fancy optical sights, wearing cammoflague 'ghillie' suits and face paint that made them all but invisible in the bushes and gardens they had concealed themselves in. The takedown team exited the houses, festooned with sub-machineguns, pump-action shotguns and stun grenades, the heaviest weaponry they could legally use and few other items that would never be referred to in any court. Magazines were removed, rounds unloaded from chambers, safeties applied. Tired, stiffened limbs were stretched, body armour laden with gear removed, cigarettes lit and mobile phone calls made to anxious families.  
"Do you want us to hang around for the debrief?" the SWAT commander asked.  
The Sheriff shook his head, replacing his own shotgun into its' carrying case. "No, I think we all know the routine by now." They shook hands.  
"Same time next year?"  
The Sheriff nodded. "Until we have a body, living or dead. And maybe even then. Your grandson will probably be doing this duty"  
They shared a mirthless smile and then went their separate ways, to well deserved breakfast and sleep. The SWAT commander was slightly disappointed that nothing had happened, the Sheriff hugely thankful, muttering a silent prayer of gratitude to a god most townspeople were convinced had deserted them. It was one of many given that morning.  
The TV crews packed up as well, disappointed that there was no story this year. Reporters did bland stand-ups to camera, futilely trying to make the fact that nothing happened interesting. Then they were gone too. One by one the fans drifted away as well, the obssessives who sent fan-mail to imprisoned serial killers and kept clippings of their crimes, free to visit the house now the police no longer threatened to arrest them for doing so. They left soon after, keen to share their frustration at the lack of action with fellow ghouls on the internet.  
The Myers house was alone once more, empty and abandoned, the scene of so much suffering. It seemed to soak up the night, even as the first rays of the false dawn started to light up the eastern sky, the constellation of the thorn burning in the heavens beginning to fade slightly in it's faint aura.  
It was then that Michael came.  
Foolish, foolish little men, thinking they could stop him, with all their weapons and technology, all the false gods they prayed to. They were naught but vulnerable flesh and bone, he had watched them all night long, invisible to their lights and night-sights, concealed in shadows with a degree and art of stealth they could never hope to comprehend. He could have killed them all, felt that glorious tear of knife through flesh and heard their pathetic, delightful screams as he added them to his tally of sacrifices.  
It never occurred to him that what he did was pointless, that the Toymaker had been killed decades before, his plans for mass sacrifice thwarted the moment his Silver Shamrock factory had blown up, taking him and the devices necessary to activate the killer Halloween masks with it. Michael had slaughtered Wynn and the rest of the pagan cult that had created him. They were unworthy, more interested in exploiting him to gain power for themselves, they had strayed from the path of the true believers, no longer believed in killing for killings sake. Without the Toymaker they were errant children, playing at evil. Michael practised evil for it's own sake. There was nothing else.  
He'd let the SWAT team live. They couldn't kill him. He'd killed everyone that could possibly end his existence. But they could wound him, wound him badly enough for him to be captured, restrained and placed in a cell once more.  
He would escape, nothing in the world would stop that. But it would take time. He had wasted so many years in captivity. And in that time so many might evade the death he yearned to visit upon them, he would miss the time of the constellation, the time of the blooding. He couldn't allow that. He had to prepare, had to track down Laurie's son, his cousins and his child…  
So he let the SWAT team live. Let Haddonfield think it could breathe again. Then one day, when they least expected it he would be there again. Whenever they thought they were safe he would shatter their complacency and punish them once more for their failure to pay tribute to the gods of autumn.  
This year he was content to walk through the rooms of the sacred place, wallowing in the wonderful memories of what had been. He could almost hear the screams, taste the blood once more, smell the fear, revel in the dying, visceral agony. It was quite fantastic, nothing else compared. It was a pilgrimage for him, one that he was irresistably drawn to every year.  
It was enough to sustain him. For a while.  
He walked down the stairs. Walked past front the room where he had first felt the euphoria of death, taken the life of his sister, the first precious, precious sacrifice. The first of so many.  
He couldn't linger any more. He walked to the door.  
"MICCCCHHHHAAAAEEEELLLL"  
He stopped. He looked around him, craning his neck curiously, attempting to puzzle out the impossible sound he had just heard. It wasn't his name. Not any more. Names were for humans and he was far beyond human now, he'd left that far behind. But the memory was still there and he recognised the name, the title they had called him before his deliverance. How could this be?  
Then it happened again, soft and almost songlike but just as clear.  
"MICCCCHHHHHAAAAEEEEELLLL"

It couldn't be.  
But it was.  
She was sitting there, sitting at the dresser with her back to him, combing her hair. Just as on the night he had killed her. He gazed at her, unable to comprehend the impossibility of what he was seeing. But she was there, his sister, Judith, as if nothing had ever happened.  
He paused in uncertainty, stunned. But he knew what to do. His choice was an easy one.  
He crossed the room in 3 silent strides, angling himself so she couldn't see him approach in the mirror. He took the butchers' knife from his pocket and raised to strike.  
"Didn't really think you'd killed me did you Michael?"  
He froze again, taking a moment to place the voice. Her wig fell away as she turned and he found himself gazing into Laurie's eyes.  
He brought the knife down. There was no hesitation.  
She caught it, the blade slicing right through the palm of her hand as she stretched it out before her. She closed her hand into a fist, trapping the knife as Michael tried to free it.   
She snapped the blade in two.  
Impossible.  
He reeled back, deafened as the first of the bullet's struck him, big, powerful .44 Magnum explosive dum-dums, tipped with fulminate mercury so that they expanded on impact, shredding flesh and bone as they penetrated, generating gaping fist sized wounds that no surgeon could ever hope to repair.  
He went down.  
Click.  
The hammer went forward onto an empty cylinder. She opened her revolver and ejected the spent rounds. It was difficult, the metal slick with her blood. She could still use her hand but it hurt, how it hurt.  
But she had lived with pain for such a long time.  
He got up again.  
She slammed another speedloader of six more bullets into place and instantly emptied them into him. He staggered under their imapct, raising his arm before him in a defensive gesture to protect his head. She wondered how many of his victims had done the same?  
Click.  
She reached for her third speedloader.  
He threw the shattered remains of the butcher's knife at her, striking her in the throat. Instinctively she dropped the gun and the fresh rounds, both clattering to the floor.  
No bullet would ever kill him.  
She reached up and pulled the knife from her throat. Blood spurted out in torrents but she remained standing. She didn't know how.  
It was impossible. Why wasn't she dead? Was wasn't she lying on the floor in her own blood writhing in her death throes? How was she still standing?  
He lurched towards her, hands outstretched. He would snap her neck, wrench her very head from her shoulders, tear it from her spinal column.  
His hand stopped an inch from her face, his progress halted by the US Marine Corps Kar-Bar fighting knife impacting on his chest. He looked down at it in shock then back up at her. She stared him right back in the eye as she turned the knife in the wound….  
He screamed.  
Screamed like so many of his prey, in pain and terror.  
He reached down and snapped her wrist, tottering backwards for a few steps as he reached in and drew the knife from his own chest. He reversed it in his hand and lurched towards her.  
She came up with the axe from the dresser

Then she was hacking, hacking and cutting, feeling the thud of the axe impact on flesh and bone, the warm sticky blood showering her, straining her muscles as she put 20 years of hatred and fear into every single blow. She was screaming at the top of her lungs, scarcely comprehending what she was saying.  
"IT'S OVER MICHAEL! IT'S OVER! IT ENDS HERE! IT ENDS TONIGHT!"  
.He staggered backwards under the flurry if blows, He reeled, he buckled, trying to stab her but unable to get close enough….  
He caught the axe in his hand.  
He broke the shaft in two.  
He swung the head at her, intent on cleaving her head from her shoulders…  
She came up with a bottle from the dresser.  
A bottle?  
It shattered at his feet a moment before the flames from the petrol bomb consumed him.  
NO! NOT THE FIRE! ANYTHING BUT THE FIRE! NOT AGAIN!  
He felt something he hadn't felt in a long time. Not since the night of his deliverance.  
Fear.  
He rolled on the floor, dropping the knife, suffocating the flames. Laurie recovered the axe head and tried to use it against him but couldn't find the opportunity to strike. He kicked her away, sending her flying across the room, smashing her halfway through the wall.  
He smothered the flames out but the rest of the room was already beginning to burn. Over the crackle of the growing fire he began to hear another noise.  
Sirens.  
He couldn't fight them, not them all. They would be coming in vast, limitless numbers. He was wounded, hurting. He needed time to heal, needed time to conceal himself, the daylight outside already raw and growing. Laurie could wait. If she survived the fire he would find her again. Find her and be prepared next time. He would always find her.  
He staggered to his feet and stumbled towards the window through the smoke, groping his way, half blinded by the smoke and his own blood running into his eyes.  
The shots tore through the gloom as Laurie found her gun, the muzzle-flash piercing the rising cloud of smoke like a vivid star. Somehow he kept himself on his feet as the rounds slammed into him. She was trying to delay him, slow him down, make him stay and fight when all he wanted to do was get away. Keep him there until the house burned down around them, the phalanx of police outside trapping him within. Forcing him to choose between immolation and their massed firepower.  
Stay and burn.  
Or face their guns. Face them as he had always avoided doing. Head on, en masse and in daylight, safely outside his striking distance.  
No.  
He wouldn't play her game. He'd make her play his. The game would always be his.  
She erupted from the darkness, tackling him to the floor, the frenzied pair clawing and flailing at one another.  
She leaned close to him, whispering in his ear as they fought.  
"It ends here. We burn together!"  
NOOOOOOOO!

"You killed my baby, you killed my friends, my lover, you killed the people I love…"  
She kept talking as he tried to wrench her arms away.  
"…you made me kill an innocent man…"  
He grabbed the knife. He stabbed her through the thigh, pinning her to the floor. She screamed as he tore himself from her grasp.  
She could burn. He would live to kill again.  
He threw himself through the window onto the grass outside.  
"FREEZE!"  
Just two cops. One old, one young. No real threat. They knew it, both trembling with fear at the sight of him, the devil they had feared for so long made flesh. They should have fled but something kept them here.  
Just two. But more would be coming. Too many. He struggled to his feet.  
"I SAID FRE…" his words were drowned in the roar of his partners' pistol. The younger hesitated for a moment then joined in emptying his shotgun into Michael, slug after slug sending him reeling.  
He kept his feet. If he fell now they would finish him.  
Their guns ran dry. The older cop desperately tried to reload, fumbling the magazine in his hand in his panic. The younger cop threw his shotgun aside and clawed frenziedly at his pistol in its' holster.  
Michael lurched towards them.  
A second cruiser screeched to a halt, it's occupants firing before they'd even exited the vehicle. They bought time for first two cops who eventually joined in with their pistols.  
He staggered backwards, flailing his arms, trying to fend off the pistol bullets like a scared child surrounded by wasps. Interspersed with the pistol shots was the blast of the shotgun wielded by the female cop, the passenger in the second police car. The pistols felt as though someone was stabbing him with ice-pick all over his body. The shotgun was like a baseball bat hammering into him.  
He had to run.  
Lose them in the back alleys and gardens, hide in the smoke that now poured from the Myers' house, pick them off one by one as they attempted to follow, return to the shadows where his strength truly laid. He couldn't fight like this, couldn't fight in the open, in the daylight, not against all of them at once.  
He turned to flee.  
"MICHAEL!"  
Laurie threw herself from the window onto him, tackling him to the floor. She started stabbing him again, his blood sizzling slightly as the blade cut home, the metal still hot from where she had prised it from the floorboards and her own flesh.  
"HOLD YOUR FIRE!"  
They'd stopped. The fools has stopped shooting. In their desire to save this one woman they'd thrown away the only chance they'd ever had.  
He took the knife away from Laurie and grabbed her around the neck. She flailed helplessly as he held her at arms length.  
He hesitated.  
Two more police cars had arrived, officers holstering pistols and checking shotguns, running towards him with their batons drawn.  
Too many to fight. Too many to evade. The moment Laurie died the shooting would begin again.  
But Laurie had given him the one thing he needed.  
A hostage.  
He held her up before him as a shield, putting the knife to her throat.  
The threat was implicit. They backed off, looking for an opportunity to fire, seeking an angle from which they wouldn't hit Laurie.  
He had his chance.  
She ripped off his mask.  
SHE RIPPED OFF HIS MASK.  
He screamed, dropping the knife and reaching to snatch it back from her, ignoring the impact of pistol shots as the police took their chance.  
In that moment she saw his face. His real face. She didn't know what to expect. Some kind of monster? And it was scarred, scarred by burns and scar tissue and bullets. But it was still human, almost childish. As though frozen in time the moment Michael Myers died and the monster that took his body was born. It just looked blank, drained of humanity. It was the flesh and blood equivalent of the mask her wore.  
She threw it into the fire.  
He cast her aside. The crescendo of gunfire began again even louder than before, more police, more guns. But there was no need.  
It slackened off as they watched, stupefied with amazement.  
Michael climbed back into the inferno of the Myers' house, climbed back into the flames. Crawled over the floor and retrieved his mask, replacing it on his head even as it melted onto his skin. And lay still.  
Laurie watched him burn. Watched the flames consume his body. Ignored the police as they gathered around her. Ignored the paramedics as they asked her about her injuries. They didn't matter. Nothing was going to kill her. Not now.  
She watched him burn. Watched as the fire engines arrived and realised what was happening, putting their hoses away and joining the increasing crowd of Haddonfield residents that gathered to witness the end of the horror that had plagued their town for decades.  
Watched as Michael Myers burned away to ashes.  
A new age had begun.

He rode his bike excitedly along the street, scrunching the autumn leaves as he went. He loved Halloween, loved it more than any other holiday. He almost ran into the figure that emerged from the shadows in front of him.  
"Hi sis" he broke into a wonderful smile. "Can we go trick or treating tonight?"  
Judith Myers took his hand. She smiled back. "Yes Michael, we can trick or treat all night long"  
She led him through the warm evening air.  
The End


End file.
